


desperado

by BeggarWhoRides



Series: desperado [1]
Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Body Horror, Character Study, F/M, Human Transmutation, Major Character Injury, Sort Of, The Promised Day, not...that dark? In the end?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-03
Updated: 2019-08-03
Packaged: 2020-07-30 14:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20098516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeggarWhoRides/pseuds/BeggarWhoRides
Summary: "No," says Riza Hawkeye, and the world stops.(In which Roy Mustang does not perform human transmutation)





	desperado

**Author's Note:**

> General warnings for: standard FMA/Promised Day blood and gore, injuries, and body horror. Also brief ableism, both internalized and perpetrated by others.

_Desperado: From the Spanish, ultimately from the Latin ‘disperare’ (to lose hope). Noun. In chess, a piece that is trapped, and sacrifices itself in a way to achieve the most possible good._

“That’ll make five,” Pride says, his voice cold and flat in away that betrays he never was a child. 

King Bradley leans in, his face inches from Roy Mustang’s. Roy tries to surge forward on instinct more than anything else, the swords piercing both of his hands keeping the movement from accomplishing anything. Bradley only smirks. “The last human sacrifice.”

“No,” Riza Hawkeye says, and the world stops. 

It isn’t a scream, it isn’t a plea, it isn’t a prayer. Her voice is rough, but it’s cracked around the wound in her throat, not emotion. 

She says it like a fact.

Pride turns, a smirk already on his face, kaleidoscope-reflected in his shadows. “Lieutenant, haven’t you learned by now you’re only a pawn in this game?”

“You’re wrong.” She pushes her way out of Zampano’s arms, only leaning on him for a moment to steady herself. He doesn’t try to stop her. He seems to know he can’t. “And you don’t need him.” 

“And why wouldn’t we?”

“You have me.” 

On the ground, Roy writhes beneath Wrath and his swords. “Lieutenant,” he says, _“Lieutenant,”_ and his voice is everything Riza’s is not, plea and prayer and scream all in one. 

Pride laughs.

“You aren’t even an alchemist. We have no need for you beyond a hostage.” 

“I am the child of Berthold Hawkeye,” she says, and Pride goes quiet. “I knew alchemy before I knew anything else. You think anyone could live in that house without learning? Without knowing?” 

“You’re no State Alchemist,” Wrath rumbles. “Don’t waste our time, woman.” 

“You have an alchemist with the knowledge.” She nods up at what was the Gold-Toothed Doctor, wrapped in Pride’s shadows. “You have the materials. All you need is a conduit.” 

_“Lieutenant, no--”_ Roy gasps. Riza doesn’t look at him.

Like blood running across the floor, Pride’s shadows move toward Riza.

_“No--”_ Roy bucks against the ground, and Wrath’s foot comes down on his chest. A few tendrils of shadow wrap around him, stilling him and smothering his shouts.

“Pride,” Wrath warns.

“You’ve been a thorn in our sides long enough, Riza Hawkeye,” Pride says, ignoring his brother. “Try, then, and die for nothing.” 

The circle forms around her, quick and precise. Shadows wrap around her legs, and she doesn’t flinch. 

“Do you have any last words, _Lieutenant?”_

Riza doesn’t flinch at Pride’s voice.

“Not for you,” she says. 

“Very well.” 

Energy crackles and leaps around her, but it is Roy who screams.

Riza meets his eyes until she can’t.

\------------------------------------------------

The only warning is a familiar alchemical crackle, and then a circle in the air spits out a human figure before vanishing.

Ed’s already on his feet, but for a few long moments he can’t place the figure. They landed facing away, and all he can really see is bloodstains and long blonde hair--but they stir, coming to half-sitting with hands pressed over their face, and he recognizes that profile.

_“Lieutenant Hawkeye?”_

“Hawkeye?” murmurs the thing calling itself Father. “Berthold’s girl. Not who I expected, but blood will out, I suppose.” 

That’s a bit of crypticness that Ed doesn’t have the mind to deal with, because when Father began speaking, the Lieutenant looked up.

There’s so much blood.

Two thick streaks, running freely down her face, covering her hands, dripping onto her clothes and the floor. And her eyes--

Her eyes aren’t there.

Ed freezes. He can’t move, he can’t _think,_ even as the Lieutenant reburies her face in her hands, some deep and useless instinct to try and guard against the pain, because the Lieutenant isn’t supposed to be here, the Lieutenant isn’t supposed to be _hurt,_ this is an alchemist’s fight, if anyone shouldn’t it be the Colonel--

Oh.

It should’ve been the Colonel here. So of course the Lieutenant had put herself in the middle, put herself on the chopping block. Al had told him about what happened beneath Laboratory 5, how convinced he’d been that he was going to see the Lieutenant die. Ed had been there as the Lieutenant held a gun to Mustang’s head, and in a voice too steady, explained what she’d do after. 

It should’ve been the Colonel.

So of course the Lieutenant took his place.

Either that, or she was trying to bring the Colonel back. Which would mean the Colonel--but he can’t even form the thought. The horror of that thought is too much, and so he lets it slide away.

While his mind stuttered through all this, Teacher had moved forward, speaking low and calm, and convinced the Lieutenant to let her look at the wounds. “Ed,” she says now, awakening an instinct long-beaten into him to respond whenever Teacher asks. “Your jacket sleeve.” 

The stitches split easily under his automail fingers, and he passes over the best thing they have for bandaging down here.

“Edward?” The Lieutenant turns her face toward him--Ed flinches, just a little, and hates himself for it. “Are you all right?” 

“I was hoping she’d die.” Pride’s voice rings loud through the chamber, and the Lieutenant turns her head, trying to find where he’s standing. “But this is good enough, I suppose. I can’t wait to see the Colonel’s face when he sees what we’ve done to his precious dog.” 

“Death would be simple,” Father says, the mouth moving oddly beneath his misshapen eyes. “Truth is too cruel for that. Two brothers, who only wished to feel their mother’s warmth again, and so dared to do the unthinkable. One lost his leg to stand on, and had his only family all but lost. The other, unable to feel warmth at all. A woman who tried to bring back her dead child, only to be left with a body that could never again bear life. And the Hawk’s Eye, ever-vigilant guard, left unable to protect even herself.

“For every human who challenges the natural order, a fair and fitting punishment meted out to keep them in their place. This is what humans call ‘God.’ This is the Truth.” 

And he would’ve kept going, had Mei Chang not dropped from above. 

Even with the intrusion, Father seems entirely unaffected. Mei looks around, sees the Lieutenant, whispers _“Again?”_ and dashes over.

“The Colonel,” the Lieutenant says, grabbing at Teacher’s arms and trying to stand. 

“Please worry about yourself!” Mei interrupts, crouching and taking in the Lieutenant’s face with more grace than Ed had. “What happened?” 

“There was--a portal, it was white…” She trails off, but Ed and Teacher both freeze. 

“I can stop the bleeding,” Mei says, sketching out a quick circle. “Lay her down so her head is in the center, please.” 

The Lieutenant doesn’t actually let go of Teacher, turning her head and looking around like she’s searching, even though it’s obvious to everyone around that she can’t see anything. Mei’s transmutation does nothing to the bloodstains already covering the Lieutenant--and there is _so much blood._

“Please don’t make me do this again!” Mei says as she and Teacher help the Lieutenant sit up. 

“Edward?” The Lieutenant isn’t quite facing him, looking several inches to the left. 

“Yeah,” he says automatically, and he’s suddenly jerked into motion, falling more than running as he goes to kneel in front of her. “Lieutenant are you--” _okay,_ he was going to ask, but lets the question fall into nothing. 

“Is Alphonse…?”

“He’s here. Or--he hasn’t woken up.” Mei makes an alarmed sound and darts over to Al’s body, and Ed takes her place at the Lieutenant’s side. She doesn’t startle when he touches her, but he can feel a momentary stiffening before she relaxes, her face turning toward his again. 

“Lieutenant,” he asks. “Did you perform human transmutation?” 

“They were going to force the Colonel through,” she says instead of answering directly. “I couldn’t let them do that.” 

_So he’s still alive._ Ed would never admit to the relief flooding him at the fact. 

“He’s up there with Wrath,” she continues, and the relief goes as quickly as it came. “I left him--”

“Wait, they sent you through the portal?” Teacher asks. “Lieutenant, I had no idea you were even an alchemist!” 

“I’m not,” she says. “I’m _not,_ I--they were ready to force the Colonel through, I only had to step into the circle.” 

So they could force anyone, any alchemist, through the portal to create their sacrifices--but they’d gone to such lengths to keep him and Al alive. If they could just open anyone’s portal like that, why--

“Edward,” the Lieutenant says. “They didn’t want to force anyone through. They said they had no choice.” 

_Okay. So they were taking a risk. Something bad happened to them as a result._ And, him being Edward Elric, that’s all he needed to know before charging into a fight. 

Whenever he looked back to check on the Lieutenant, he saw her with her face tilted up, toward away from the current fight, so focused that Ed could almost believe that she could see--not only see, but look through the walls and rubble to the exact person she wanted to. 

_Mustang,_ Ed thinks viciously, _if you don’t survive after all of this, I’m gonna kick your ass._

\------------------------------------------------

Above, Roy Mustang paces. He clenches his fists as best he can, the blood running fresh each time, and he doesn’t care. The pain is almost a distraction.

“Man, sit down,” one of the former-soldier chimaeras--he’s no idea who is who--says. “You’re hurt.” 

“I’m fine.”

“You aren’t.” Roy turns to see the man looking at him with sympathy, and that’s all he can take. 

_“Why didn’t you stop her?”_ He’s moving, shouting, hands slapping into the other man’s broad chest, grabbing at his collar. It’s agony, Roy doesn’t stop.

“She didn’t look like a lady that could be stopped.” 

“It should’ve been me,” Roy snarls, “it should’ve been me, you understand? Whatever happened, whatever’s happening, it should’ve been me. Not her. Never her.” 

“Hey.” It’s the other chimaera-soldier, the shorter one, his hand heavy on Roy’s shoulder. “This isn’t helping her.” 

And the fight drains from Roy completely. He lets go of the first man’s shirt with a muttered apology, not even waiting for him to finish waving it off before positioning himself, sentry-like, at the edge of the hole. He stares like he expects to see something. Like if he squints just right, there the Lieutenant will be. 

_I am the child of Berthold Hawkeye._

It was the first time Roy had heard her say it.

She’d been the ghost of Hawkeye manor, more than anything. She never was a child, not really.

Roy remembers the first few months at the manor, hunting for clues to try and solve the mystery of Master’s daughter. Clean dishes drying next to the sink. The meals, still warm on the stove. Freshly butchered animals from the woods behind the manor, blood draining steadily into the sink. Even then, the kills had been quick and clean, bullets fired by someone with a steady hand.

In the end, he met her on accident. It was sometime late enough to be early, but he was holed up in the library still, trying to find where his transmutation circle was flawed--he was so close, he could _taste_ it, but he couldn’t quite--

He hadn’t heard the door open, but he heard the small sound like a choked-off gasp, and turned around. 

And there she was.

Hair cropped like a boy’s, a faded blouse buttoned up to her chin and a skirt that looked like it fell to her ankles before she’d outgrown it. Her face was red, a kind of embarrassed-startled-angry flush crawling up her cheeks. 

Roy knew girls--at that point, he’d lived with Madame Christmas almost eight years--but he knew his sisters, _Madame’s girls,_ the kind who were beautiful and knew how to use it, whip-sharp with smiles like knives.

This country girl clutching a duster in both hands was decidedly not anything like his sisters.

“Sorry,” Roy said automatically. “I didn’t--I’m sorry if I startled you.” 

“The library is supposed to be empty. I’m supposed to clean.” 

“When do you _sleep?”_ he blurted, and her still-red face went stiff and defensive. “I mean--you can clean. If you want. I don’t mind.” 

She’d looked like she minded, but shuffled forward with her duster, determinedly not looking at Roy while cleaning the farthest corner of the library. Roy watched--if only because he’d been bewildered by the fact that she seemed to aggressively dislike him and Roy had been used to being the charming darling of the room--but eventually he returned to his studies. He knew Master Hawkeye would _kill_ him if he didn’t work this out.

“You’ve unbalanced your carbons.” 

Roy nearly jumped out of his skin. At some point, a few sunbeams had started creeping into the room, and the girl had crept up to the table and his scattered notes.

“What?”

“There.” Her hand darted out, tapped a symbol on his circle, and withdrew just as quickly. “So you can go now.”

“I--” Roy stared, sketched the same symbol on the opposite side of the circle, and let out a long breath. “It was that easy?” 

He looked up, and she was almost out the door.

“Hey, wait!” She froze, and so did he. _Thank you,_ was right on his tongue, warring with _how’d you know that?_ and _we could do this again sometime?_ somewhere near _hey, are you okay?_

“What’s your name?” he finally settled on. 

“Riza, Mr. Mustang,” she said, and he grinned.

It had never been simple for them, but it had been simpler then. Quiet moments stolen when they could risk it--the library, the kitchen, when Roy could sneak out to walk her to and from town. 

He’d asked her once to do alchemy with him. She told him that Master Hawkeye forbid that, and neither had brought it up again. 

Now, Roy paces, helpless and furious, wondering how often alchemy can betray a person. 

Master Hawkeye, refusing to let her transmute. Carving into her back research he’d never let her use. 

Roy, taking those secrets from her. Using the alchemy she still had faith in to murder thousands. 

And now this.

Now this. 

“We’ll find her,” Roy says. Roy believes, because if he says anything else--if he even lets himself _think_ of the alternative--

“We’ll find her,” Roy says, “and then I will _burn them all.”_

\------------------------------------------------

They come up at last, Ed and Al, their father and teacher, the small woman from Xing--but they’re crouched down around another figure and Roy doesn’t realize he’s running forward until he’s already made it halfway over, because there’s someone else there, and he knows who it has to be, but she’s on the ground, all he can see is blood and all he can remember is the sound she’d made when they slit her throat.

“Colonel,” someone starts, but he pushes past and through. 

His first thought is _she’s sitting up, she’s alive, she’s okay_\--and then she looks up. 

Roy makes a low animal noise, like _he’s_ the one hurt, like _he’s_ the one who’s been--

He falls to his knees, hands in the air on each side of her head, needing to touch, terrified to touch. 

Riza makes the decision for him. Her hands hit him clumsily at first, but she orients herself quickly, running her hands up and down his shoulders, his chest, skimming over his face.

“Sir--sir, are you--” 

“I’m fine, Hawkeye, you--” he chokes out, catching her wrists and clutching them to his chest. “Oh, _God.”_

“Sir, your hands--” 

“Fuck my hands, your _eyes--”_

“Okay,” says the Xingese prince--or the homunculus in the prince’s body, there’s that edge to his voice--”Everyone who can’t fight, get off here!” 

Roy curses, low and violent and not all in Amestrian with a glance at his ruined gloves and his ruined hands beneath them. Riza can’t follow his gaze but follows his thoughts as easily as ever, fingers brushing over the bloody fabric of his gloves and the tear that meant a broken transmutation circle.

“Colonel--”

“We need to get you someplace safe--” 

“Your gloves--” 

“They’re ruined--” 

“Give them to me.” 

Roy freezes. “What?” 

“I don’t need the circles,” she says, pulling the gloves off as gently as possible. “Only the spark.”

His breath catches--understanding and worry and awe all in one. He helps her slip the larger, bloodied gloves onto her hands. She starts to stand, and he stands with her. 

“You’ve forgotten one thing.” 

“Sir?” 

He’s still got his hands around her wrists. They’re small and slender, but not fragile. They’ve never been fragile. They’re steady, solid, and despite everything--despite so many things--her pulse is beating steadily under his fingers. 

“You’ll need my eyes.” 

Riza’s shoulders settle back into that familiar military posture. For the first time since seeing Riza step into that circle, Roy feels something almost like confidence. 

“Yes, sir!”

\------------------------------------------------

Above ground, it’s chaos. Roy has Riza pressed close to his side, looking around as best he can and knowing he’s missing things that Riza would spot. Riza has her hands out in those overlarge split gloves, pressing herself even harder into Roy’s side to avoid missing a single movement.

“We’re facing him now,” he murmurs, and he feels her settle into a sniper’s stance.

“You’ll need to teach me how to do this,” she murmurs back, hands ready to clap. 

“If you teach me how to aim,” he replies.

“Let’s start with something more specific than j_facing him.” _

“Adjust your aim 15 degrees east. Two degrees up.” A dangerous smirk grows on his face. “No need to hold back.” 

“Understood, sir,” she says, and claps.

\------------------------------------------------

Riza refuses to collapse until Roy assures her that Edward is back, until she hears Alphonse’s voice without its metallic reverb, and the focus has moved from survival to clearing the debris.

When she wakes, the first thing she notices is pain. It’s distant, through a deep layer of fog, but insistent nonetheless. 

The second thing is how dark it is. 

She tries to blink, reaches up to rub her eyes, and _oh._

A hand catches her wrist.

“Lieutenant.” 

_Oh._ He lets go, but only for a moment before helping her raise her head, pressing a glass of water to her lips. Swallowing sends a flash of pain through her throat, and _oh._ That’s right, that happened too. 

“Lieutenant,” he says again, setting down the water but leaving one hand cradling the back of her head. “Are you with me?”

It’s a silly question. “Yes, sir.” 

“Right.” His hand twitches on the back of her head, like he’s consciously keeping his grip gentle despite the emotions he’s not quite keeping out of his voice. “That was foolish.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“It was reckless, it was _idiotic,_ it was--” His voice breaks down the center before he starts again. “You could’ve made a smarter decision than that.” 

“Yes, sir. But I wouldn’t.” I _couldn’t._

“I--” He stops again, but she can feel the tension even in his hand on the back of her head, the way he’s nearly vibrating with it. Riza can see it again, that last thing on Earth she saw, his eyes so wide and horrified and fixed on her. 

She can’t imagine what he’d seen.

“It was my choice, sir,” she adds, a little softer. “And you know why I made it.” 

“I do,” he says, his thumb rubbing gentle circles at the base of her skull. His voice is heavy, tired, holding every ounce of regret she knows they both carry--but there’s something soft and awed and far too emotional to be allowed in this space, open in the air of this military base. 

He says _I do,_ and it’s apology and vow and _I love you too._

“Colonel,” she says. It’s meant to be a warning. It comes out soft in a way that she can’t blame on her cut throat. 

“I have something,” he says abruptly, pulling back his hand. Riza tries to follow the faint sound of his movements, disconcerted by the sudden lack of contact. “Marcoh passed it along--hold out your hand.” 

He drops something hard into her palm, and Riza clutches it automatically, then brings her other hand up to examine it. It’s a crystal of some sort, several faces of different sizes and shapes, smooth but not in a shape she can imagine anyone would want a crystal cut. It’s oddly warm, not quite the way she’s used to stones feeling when they’ve been warmed in a pocket; there’s something pulsing out from within.

“Marcoh gave it to me. It’s a Philosopher’s Stone.” 

Riza has sniper’s instincts. When she startles, when she is horrified, disgusted, terrified, or too many emotions to name, she does not jerk, does not scream or flinch. 

She breathes, in and out and in again, the Stone in the palm of her hand.

“He offered it,” Roy continues. “He knew about--what happened, under the city. He offered this to undo the damage, in exchange for working toward the restoration of Ishval.” 

“This is an Ishvalan stone.” 

“Yes.” 

She lets her hand close around the stone again, letting the smooth faces and sharp corners press white lines into her palm. 

_Undo the damage._ It’s a very simple way to say _give you back your eyes, let you stay in the military, let you stay at his side, let you move on from this as if you did nothing. _

_All you need to do is use these souls. Lay your head in a circle and let alchemy do its work._

She thinks about her father’s library, the air heavy and musty; dust and mold and antiseptic and blood. _Hold still Riza. Let me work._

That was the first time alchemy had betrayed her. The promise of her father’s time and attention, and in exchange--

Then there was that quiet bedroom after the funeral, goosebumps on her bare breasts, Roy’s fingers touching her like she was a revelation. It was an easy choice, really--her father wrote down his research precisely because he wanted it passed on, and there was only one man she could imagine trusting. _Don’t let your father’s research be lost,_ some part of her whispered, _don’t let it follow the path he did. Let it escape this place and do some good, as alchemy is meant to._

And then there came Ishval. Hell on Earth, between the sun beating down on their backs and the smoke, thick and black and choking. She followed Roy, of course she did, but there was also a need to stand in that desert, to see the settling ash and smell the burning flesh. And then the scene only a few hours ago, sewers and smoke and burning flesh, and the gun steady in her hand as she aimed at his head.

It was the Flame Alchemist who snapped his fingers, but Riza knew where the responsibility lay.

_Alchemy is for the people. Alchemy is meant to do good._

The taste of her own blood running down her face and into her mouth as she sat, made helpless by alchemy as a creature made by alchemy attempted to strip the country of its souls.

And here, in the settling dust, alchemy reaches out to her again. Her sight, her duty, her purpose, all handed back to her in exchange for burning up a few Ishvlan souls. 

“I can’t.” The words stumble out without her actually considering them, but as soon as she hears them she knows it’s true. Opening her hand, she extends her arm out toward where she remembers Roy last. “I can’t.” 

“Okay.” There’s a brush of his fingers and as simple as that, the Stone is gone. “It’s okay. That’s okay.” 

“Sir--” 

“It’s all right,” Roy says, steady and certain. 

Riza is ready to scream. _You can’t know_ wars with _how can it be, how can any of this be all right,_ wars with _do you realize what’s happened, do you realize my eyes are gone, and I would do it again but how can I go on, how can we go on--_

Something small lands in her palm. 

Her hand closes around it automatically. It’s not the Stone, she knows immediately, it’s far too small and light. It’s some kind of loop of metal, almost a perfect circle except for where something hard juts out. Smooth, polished, just the right size to--

“Sir.” 

“I need you at my side,” he says, still calm and solid. “Whatever way that is.” 

Riza breathes, waits for the moment to shatter, for something to snatch this away from her. Nothing comes.

“You know,” she says, her voice cracked and dry. “Rebecca will kill you if you don’t do this properly.” 

“Right.” There’s a moment of Roy’s fingers on her palm, then a rustle of movement she can’t quite track. “I’m down on one knee.” 

“Am I looking at you?” 

“Fifteen degrees to the left.” Riza makes the adjustment, sits up straight, and swallows around the pain in her neck. This isn’t how any of Rebecca’s romance novels detailed it happening, but then, this was never supposed to happen at all. 

She can hear Roy take a breath, shift, breathe again. He’s nervous, she realizes in a rush, and it almost makes her laugh. 

“Will you?” 

“Haven’t I already said?” It’s the easiest thing in the world to say again. “Even into Hell.” 

Roy’s hands are clumsy between the bandaging and the injuries, but the ring still slides on like it was meant to be there.

“Come here,” Riza says, gesturing to the bed, and Roy does.

\------------------------------------------------

It isn’t easy. Riza feels naked without her uniform and rank, rubbed raw without her guns and her sight. Roy hovers, she snaps at him, and then she hurts herself trying to do something that once she could’ve done without a thought.

It’s hard for Riza to learn her limits. It’s harder to learn to ask for help. Slowly, slowly, she does. Slowly, slowly, they grow. 

Six years later, it’s her grandfather’s birthday, and the mansion, she’s assured, is gorgeous. Rebecca also assures her that Riza is just as gorgeous, in a shade of deep red and her lipstick done to match. Riza just appreciates the flowing fabric, dipping just low enough in the front to show her collarbones and not low in the back at all. It drapes like the togas she’s seen in the new history texts that focus on Xerxes, pinned to cinch in tightly high on her waist, extra fabric bowing out, but returning back to its water-like cascading down her legs. Roy’s suit is smooth under her fingers, well-tailored enough that she can feel his muscles beneath the arm she’s holding. 

“Oh God, it’s Lady Marche, spare me,” Roy hisses in her ear. 

“Could you take me to get a drink?” Riza asks loudly. 

“Of course,” Roy says, with a chaste and gentlemanly kiss to her cheek. Riza knows they’ve left Lady Marche’s eyeshot when he kisses her again, on the heavily made up scar on her throat. 

“Roy,” she says, a little too much like a moan. 

“Riza.” It’s still a thrill to hear him say her name like this, to hear him say her name at all. 

“Roy,” she manages, firmer. “It would hardly be appropriate for the Fuhrer to be found in a compromising position. Especially at the birthday of the former Fuhrer.” 

“Tch,” he grumps, but acquiesces. They sweep out onto another part of the main floor, and the world again becomes a mess of overpowering perfumes, hands to shake, and simpering voices--often raised far too loud, as if Riza’s lack of sight means she’s a hard-of-hearing child as well. Normally, Riza is able to slip away when Roy has to put on the politician mask, but they’d decided to give the dogs the night off, Black Hayate and her guide dog Fearless Seiun both. So Riza smiles, uses Roy as her North Star, and uses the patronizing pity to end conversations when she feels Roy tensing beneath his suit. 

At least this way she’s safe from being pulled into the circles of politician’s wives. Those conversations always leave her itching for her sniper’s rifle. 

As another politician wanders off, Roy presses a kiss to Riza’s forehead. It’s so casual, so easily affectionate, and Riza’s knees go weak with the miracle of it. She knows Roy feels it too, from the way his breath catches and he untangles his arm from hers in order to pull her closer, to let her nestle her head on his shoulder while he wraps his arms around her waist. 

He’s done this a lot lately--enough that it’s gotten her wondering if he knows. If he’s even let himself hope. 

It’s likely her own paranoia making her think this way, the same way she’d insisted on loose draping fabrics over something more form-fitting. There’s no bump, anyway. Not yet.

But there will be. 

There are questions to ask and conversations to have. Is there time to raise a child properly, in this life they are living. Is it safe, with both of them so high-profile. Do they deserve a child, after everything. 

But in the moment, just for a moment, Riza lets herself lean into Roy. Lets things be simple. Lets herself be happy.

**Author's Note:**

> *darts in, drops this unbetad fic, darts out*
> 
> Apparently every year I write one Royai fic. I hope you enjoyed this one! Honestly though, I have a Lot of thoughts about this AU, and if folks are interested (maybe even if they aren't?) I'll probably end up writing more in this verse. 
> 
> Thank you so, so much if you've read this far! I adore kudos, and if you're so incredibly kind to comment, know that I may not reply (we love when mental and physical illness get together to gang up on someone) but I read and treasure every single one. And even if you've just read it, I adore you immensely!
> 
> Be so kind to yourselves, everyone! And I can't thank you enough for reading.
> 
> <3


End file.
